


Overheard

by redscudery



Series: Kinkmeme Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Prompt Fill, Semi-Public Sex, Sleepy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From an anonymous prompt on the kinkmeme:</p><p>For whatever reason (could be uni!lock, could just be a hotel room), John and Sherlock are sharing a room, but in separate beds. One night, in the dark, John can't sleep and he thinks he hears Sherlock masturbating. I just want some lovely smut about what John imagines Sherlock is doing based on the quiet sounds he makes.</p><p>And of course, I couldn't get it to post there. So, poor anon, sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overheard

John Watson stretched out between the sheets of the hard hotel bed, sighing with pleasure. It had been a cold, muddy, wet slog through the Suffolk landscape in order to discover, of all things, that the dog had been the one to shoot his master*. Sherlock had spent an inordinate amount of time gloating to the local constabulary while they were still standing around in their wet clothes, and John had been feeling like he would never get warm. Now that he had showered and changed into dry t-shirt and pants and was horizontal on a reasonably bed-like surface, he felt heavenly. He fell asleep so fast he only vaguely heard Sherlock come out of the shower and flop down on the other bed. 

At 2 a.m. he woke up bolt upright, stomach growling.It was all very well for Sherlock- the mad git so rarely ate-but a bag of crisps and a Violet Crumble were completely insufficient fuel after a long day. 

He looked over to see if Sherlock was sleeping. It certainly looked like it; the very dim outline showing no movement. He was a tidy sleeper, lying quietly on one side, not snoring. John decided a glass of water would help him sleep. Really, he should start carrying provisions, he thought, getting up. 

Once he was back in bed, he lay back, closed his eyes, and tried to return to sleep. He tried deep breathing, usually the only trick necessary given his army training, but the sleepy heaviness in his brain and limbs would not come. 

Usually, at this point, he would break out the heavy artillery (as it were), and have a wank, but Sherlock's quiet presence beside him stopped him.  
It was one thing to do it in an army barracks where you were almost certainly not the only one, but in a room with just one person, especially a flatmate for whom you had profound and occasionally confusing feelings, it was nearly impossible. 

Or was it? His cock twitched at the thought of those confusing feelings. Exercising his willpower, John folded his arms up behind his head and gave deep breathing another try. 

Think about sinking into the darkness, he thought. Pretend you've already come. Think about your brain releasing oxytocin. Deep breaths.  
It wasn't helping. 

While he was considering whether or not he should try counting sheep, there was a movement from the other bed. John glanced over, half hoping that Sherlock would be awake so that his misery would have company, but it was so dark that he just couldn't tell. 

He was trying to direct his mind back to the sheep when there was another rustle from the bed. Sherlock sighed. 

Then he sighed again, more deeply, and there was a soft sound of hands moving against sheets. 

John froze. He knew, knew that Sherlock was probably just sleeping. Maybe he was dreaming, or playing the violin in his sleep- who knew what went on in that man's head?

Another sigh, this one more breathy. It bypassed John's brain this time and went straight to John's cock, which left off twitching and just sprang up, hard. 

What if he was wanking? John thought. He had never really imagined Sherlock doing such a thing. Other things, maybe, but never that. In his mind Sherlock was simply above that, too busy for it.

Maybe he was wanking in his sleep.

That thought drove John's hardness from "iron" to "unbearable." He'd really never sleep now, unless he did wank.  
No. He couldn't. John resolutely tried not to think about what might be happening in the bed opposite, but at the thought of Sherlock's long hand traveling down his own smooth stomach, wrapping around his already-hard cock and slowly, slowly pulling, stroking, enjoying the contrast between the pressure of his hand and the smooth sheets...

Wait, that was his own hand. Quickly, John raised his knee to avoid making the same regular, whispery sounds against the sheet, because the alternative was stopping, and he wasn't sure he would be able to. Sticky drops were already appearing at the slit of his cock, and as he spread them over the head with the pad of his thumb, he imagined Sherlock doing the same. As he brought his thumb to his mouth to add a little saliva, he tasted the salty, musky liquid and it made him harder still. 

Another noise from the other bed- it was a groan. It had to be a groan. John bit his own lip to keep quiet. He was good at being quiet, but this, whatever this was, was testing his limits. It was as if he was touching both himself and Sherlock, and feeling the pleasure for both. 

Thinking of Sherlock's lean body tensed with pleasure like he himself was feeling brought him right to the edge. He was stroking himself firmly now, trying desperately to be quiet enough. He was almost past caring that he would be heard, but he couldn't bear not to hear the noises Sherlock was making- the sighs and groans were now punctuated with sharp exhalations, and the sound was nearly as effective as John's hand.

He was at the tipping point now. Another, deeper breath from the other bed and John was coming hard, his cock pulsing sticky semen over his hand and belly, his vision momentarily blurry. 

At that moment, a car drove by, projecting light onto the bed opposite. From his post-orgasmic daze, John saw that Sherlock's head was thrown back on the pillow, his eyes closed, his soft, beautifully shaped mouth open. One long arm was thrown up over his head, and the flat muscles of his torso were briefly visible.

"John," he sighed.

John sank back into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> * The "dog killing hunter" thing is surprisingly common.


End file.
